


Sherlolly 4: Hedlund, Parts 1 and 2

by George_Sand



Series: George_Sand Sherlolly Series 1 [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hedlund - Freeform, Intimate kissing, Mature but always sweet and gentle, Mollys shirt off bra on, Passive Molly, Piano, Sherlock in charge, Slow Burn, Sonata, Virgin Sherlock, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:49:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9450953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/George_Sand/pseuds/George_Sand
Summary: Sherlock explores Molly as she lays passively.  He plays her as he would a violin.Part 4 of George_Sand Sherlolly Series 1. Please read the series in order, each builds upon the last.On the bed, Sherlock drags his hands up over Molly’s shirt to her arms, catching her wrists and bringing them over her head as the music in his mind begins.  Molly’s eyes remain closed, but her eyebrows go up and her neck arches.  She exhales as the melody unfolds in Sherlock’s mind.  He leans in close and their fingers intertwine, but just for a moment, before one of his hands moves to clutch her wrist.  Fingers at her pulse point, he feels Molly’s tendons and is suddenly struck by their likeness to the strings on his violin.  He he palpates her tendons.  Interpreting Molly’s hand movements and continued rhythmic breathing correctly, Sherlock lays down next to her.  Resting his head on her shoulder as he would a violin chin rest, he reaches across her body to play her other wrist.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sonata for Violin and Piano No. 2 in E flat major, Op, 102: lii  
> Hedlund and Kern’s recording can be found online at  
> https://youtu.be/3bbjVUFYslQ?list=PL_l5rYJf0-h2FvaZA3W1gdEM3vv2CdReo  
> Tortorello & Meluso’s recording can be found online at  
> https://youtu.be/NFbOF1sgpDs?list=PL_l5rYJf0-h2FvaZA3W1gdEM3vv2CdReo

          Sherlock and Molly sit at the small kitchen table in Molly’s flat.  It has become their habit to have coffee together several evenings a week.  One texts the other and they meet, usually at her flat, after Molly’s work and Sherlock’s…whatever he does.

          Today, sitting at her table, Sherlock is thinking of their experience a few days ago.  Molly had examined him, almost literally medically examined him, yet in such a sensual way.  He had mused for three days about her instruction to him to remain still, and the new dynamic it brought to an intimate situation.

          Sherlock assumes an air of detached curiosity, hoping to hide his apprehension, and brings it up.

          “Molly Hooper, no doubt you remember Tuesday and your, ah, experimental work on my body.” 

          Here Molly ducks bashfully to her cup and takes a gulp.  She flusters, “Oh, yeah, I just needed…life…that day.  I hope you didn’t mind too much.  Sorry, sorry.”

          But Sherlock has stretched his hand across the table, palm up, for Molly to take.  “I’d like to return the favor”.

          Molly’s eyes widen.  She is proud of her quiet confidence in intimate situations, but Tuesday’s experience had been entirely new and, she thought, only tolerated by Sherlock.  Now, being told that it gave him pleasure – and that he wanted to give her pleasure in that way – she isn’t sure what to say.  She isn’t sure if she would like being passively handled.  She looks at her hand in Sherlock’s, then up to eyes, then smiles shyly.  “Okay”.

          “I noticed you had a hard time navigating the couch, that it limited your freedom of movement, and I propose that we give ourselves more room to…work…today.”

          Molly’s shy smile turns indulgent; Sherlock’s language always becomes more formal when he is unsure.  A very rare occurrence, but Molly has noticed it almost every time they were alone together, “working”. 

          Sherlock states, “The optimal location, of course, would be your bed.” Then quickly continues, “but I don’t plan to take our…work…beyond its current, ah, stage.  I’m simply proposing improved accommodations,” as Molly raises an eyebrow.

          Molly can’t help but chuckle at his formal befuddlement, and willingly rises from the table.  Walking down the short hall, they enter her bedroom, and she watches Sherlock’s eyes take in and memorize every detail, doubtless coming to know her better with his inevitable deductions.  As much as to distract him from those deductions as anything else, she sits heavily on her bed.

          “Lie down and relax,” Sherlock more questions than requests.  Molly lies on her back, relaxing her hands to her sides, legs straight and comfortable.  He sits on the bed, to her left.  Suddenly, he is at a loss.  Molly has willingly placed her body in his care, and he has no idea what to do with it.  Her eyes watch his face curiously. He wants to bring pleasure and emotion to her like she had to him.

          Sherlock begins hesitantly, kissing her eyes closed.  He hears a slight but familiar sigh as he does so, and his confidence rises a bit.  He concentrates on her eyes a bit longer.

          Sherlock adjusts closer to Molly and tentatively put his hands on her waist, slowly dragging them up her sides over her clothing, all the way to her shoulders.  Molly begins to breathe deeply.

          Sherlock moves his hands back down to her waist and slides his hands up the sides of her body again, this time peeling off her jumper, revealing the ubiquitous close-fitting t-shirt beneath. Molly’s deep breathes have become rhythmic and Sherlock is suddenly reminded of one of his favorite pieces of music, a sonata he has played countless times.  He moves his hands to her hips once more, dragging them up over Molly’s shirt to her arms, then catching her wrists and bringing them over her head as the music in his mind begins.  Molly’s eyes remain closed, but her eyebrows go up and her neck arches.  She exhales as the melody unfolds in Sherlock’s mind.

          Sherlock leans in close and he and Molly’s fingers intertwine, but just for a moment, before one of his hands moves to clutch her wrist.  Fingers at her pulse point, he feels Molly’s tendons and is suddenly struck by their likeness to the strings on his violin.  Sherlock imagines playing his violin, playing the piece in his mind for Molly.  He slips into the music as he palpates her tendons.  Molly flexes and closes her fingers and her tendons move and become easier for him to feel.  Sherlock’s fingers follow the tendons along her arm, losing them on the way to her inner elbow.

          Interpreting Molly’s hand movements and continued rhythmic breathing correctly, Sherlock lays down next to her.  Resting his head on her shoulder as he would a violin chin rest, he reaches across her body to hold her other wrist. 

          Sherlock fingers and thrums her tendons, even working his own wrist as he would on a violin to elicit vibrato.  Molly’s breathing continues in time to the silent music and she flexes and closes her fingers repeatedly to allow greater access to her strings.

          As the music in Sherlock’s mind swells, his fingertips slip from her wrist to her inner elbow, past her shoulder to her neck, and down slowly between her breasts.  He watches Molly shiver and knows she feels only pleasure.

          Here the music becomes faster and more playful.  Sherlock reaches up and hooks his finger over Molly’s t-shirt collar and is able to stretch it almost to the bridge of her bra.  She blushes and her breaths become a little shallower.

          Sherlock props himself up and drops kisses onto the skin between her breasts, licking and exhaling.  To his delight, Molly exhales loudly and a soft giggle escapes her mouth.  She turns her head and smiles, almost to herself.  She brings her arms down to Sherlock’s head, wanting to clutch it to her chest, but Sherlock whispers, “Lie back please,” and replaces her arms above her head.  He realizes that it must be a vulnerable position for her, but she willingly complies, and Sherlock marvels at her trust. 

          Sherlock holds her hands in one of his and moves the other, letting go of her collar and allowing his fingers to brush down over the shirt to her stomach.  She begins to whisper his name, “Sheh…” but doesn’t finish.  Sherlock notices that the voice projects only trust and pleasure.  The music softens.

          His hand turns over, the backs of his knuckles resting on the fabric over her soft stomach.  He gently slips his fingertips just under her waistband, his fingernails grazing her skin, and slides his knuckles back and forth, using his whole arm, as he would slide a bow across violin strings.

          Molly tries to move her body toward the headboard, wanting Sherlock’s fingers farther under her waistband but instead he slides his hand around to the small of her back.  He gently turns her over to lie on her stomach.

          Sherlock slides his hands along Molly’s back, under her shirt, with no motive, simply seeking skin.  Her shirt stretches up over his hands and suddenly Molly has yanked it all the way up and over her head. He sees her pink cheeks darken and he lightly pushes a hand between her shoulder blades.  The music hesitates with Sherlock as he wonders if he should allow this to happen.  He studies her back, her shoulders, her neck.  With her head to the side, he sees two tendons, begging to be played.  Sherlock sweeps Molly’s hair away from her neck and touches the tendons.  Molly smiles as he leans in to stroke them with his tongue.  Enraptured, moving his tongue with the music in his mind, his hand slips around her neck and he feels her trachea in his palm.  He hears no complaint but realizes that the position might be too aggressive and immediately draws his hand away from Molly’s throat, slipping his hand between her shoulder and the bed.

          As he moves his arm, Molly squirms and Sherlock understands that she is trying to get his hand to sweep her breast.  He doesn’t let it.  “Be still, Molly.”

          Now kneeling next to Molly on the bed, Sherlock puts both thumbs on her spine just below her bra’s band and encircles her rib cage with his large hands, as she so enjoyed in the past.  Again, Molly squirms, trying to re-position his hands, quietly pleading with a discontented moan that rises in pitch.  Sherlock gives in and slides his hands up, outside her bra, to hold her breasts.  Molly moans, lowering in pitch, this time satisfied.  She arches her back and somehow nestles in, Sherlock realizing that she is positioning her nipples in the centers of his palms.  The music in Sherlock’s mind falls down the scale and he knows he has only seconds left.

          As the violin quiets he straddles Molly and hovers over her, keeping most of his weight on his elbows and knees.  She opens her legs and, as she feels the movement in his trousers, her breath catches familiarly.  She arches her back, raising her hips slightly off the bed and moves them gently and slowly, left then right, to center him, before relaxing again.

          Sherlock’s music reaches a rapid crescendo, then relaxes slowly.  Sherlock lays his head on the bed next to hers, their hair mingling as the violin releases its last high, quavering notes.

          The sound fades.

          In the silence, Molly, head on the bed and eyes still closed, asks “What was that?”

          Sherlock, eyes closed, slides his hands up under Molly’s shoulders.  “Saint-Saëns. Sonata for violin and piano.”

          Molly remembers the stroking of her wrists and neck, and the intermittent, almost inaudible humming she felt, rather than heard.  “A sonata is probably better than an autopsy.  You play gorgeously.”

          Sherlock sighs and rolls off of Molly’s back.  “Probably not.  You work gorgeously." Then, beginning to babble,  "I was using Saint Saëns’ sonata for violin and piano, number 2, in E flat major.  The recording by Tortorelli and Meluso is technically slightly better but I chose Hedlund and Kern because it’s more…sentimental.”  The word comes out almost grudgingly, but Molly hears the admiration in his voice.

          Molly has no trouble believing that Sherlock can play a full sonata in his mind, but to have the ability to remember the nuances of different renditions is too much.  Almost.  Molly is pleased that he had consciously chosen emotion over perfection.

          “I thought that would be appropriate.  In addition, Hedlund and Kern’s recording is a full minute longer.  It gave me more time to play.”  Sherlock considers the differences between making music with his violin and with Molly.  His analysis is cloudy.

          “Well thank Hedlund and Kern for that extra minute!”  Molly says playfully, bringing him back to the present.

          Sherlock takes up a monologue about the recordings; the probable size of the recording studios, the maker of each instrument, Hedlund’s violin almost sounding as a viola at the lowest notes…

          Molly’s amused smile brings Sherlock to silence as they lay on her bed, face to face.

 --

          Sunday morning, Molly comes unannounced to Baker Street.  A bustling Mrs. Hudson lets her in and Molly climbs the stairs to find Sherlock laying motionless on the couch in his dressing gown and pajamas, steepled hands under his chin. 

          “You want me to play for you.” He states.

          Molly says “Hello, yes I do.”  She can see the delight in Sherlock’s eyes, though he tries to appear put out. 

          “I happen to have the Hedlund recording right here.  I was…reviewing it…last night.”  Causing Molly to smile happily.  Sherlock stands, turns on an mp3, and twiddles the knobs on a speaker until some of the sounds fade into the background and other sounds become clearer.

          “This isn’t your song, I’m just adjusting the sound before we begin," he says absently as he works, and Molly’s eyebrows shoot up at the phrase “your song”.  She smiles again.

          Finally Sherlock finds his violin and tunes it, and Molly makes herself comfortable on the couch.  He stands in front of her and presses _play_.  As the piano sings its opening notes, he looks quietly at Molly’s eyes.  Molly doesn’t expect him to turn, almost self-consciously, from her gaze as he begins to play.  He had arranged the sound so the piano shines in the foreground and the recorded violin is lost in the background, and somehow Sherlock is playing a duet with the recorded piano.  Playing, Sherlock walks away from Molly, toward the window.  As he stands there, his torso starts swaying with the music and his jaw nuzzles into the chin rest.  Molly has seen passionate musicians move with their music, but with Sherlock it is different.  As Molly watches, she realizes that he is playing, and exposing, his heart, and that it is too much for him to make eye contact while he does so. 

          Molly stands up and walks toward Sherlock, making no effort to be quiet, so she doesn’t startle him.  He does not turn around.  Standing behind him she puts her hands on his hips, and feels him stop moving.  His playing continues uninterrupted however, and he soon relaxes back into movement.  Molly touches her forehead lightly to Sherlock’s back, her body following his as he plays.  She reaches up and her right hand hovers over his shoulder.  Sherlock makes a permissive hum and she touches it, just barely grazing it, so she can feel him without disturbing him.  She feels his shoulder move as he draws the bow back and forth, manipulating it with practiced care.  She places her hand back on his hip as their bodies continue to move.  She then moves her left hand to approach Sherlock’s other arm.  She doesn’t want to disturb his music but she so wants to be a part of it.  Her fingertips graze his forearm and he makes another permissive sound.  She allows her fingers to rest lightly on his arm as it, his wrist, and his fingers control the instrument.  She feels the muscles in his forearm work under her fingers. It is lovely, but Molly intuits that she is hindering him, so she moves her hand back to his hip.  Involuntarily, her hands slip around to his stomach and chest, holding him close.  She presses against and moves with him as he plays, almost dancing.  Finally, Sherlock’s left hand slides down the violin’s neck, playing one long, last, achingly high note.  Molly feels a thrill up her spine as she remembers how they had finished when Sherlock had played _her_.

          Sherlock leans forward to put his violin on the window sill and his bow on the music stand.  Molly does not let go and draws his back close to her chest again as he straightens.  He lays his hands over hers.

          “Bloody good, isn’t he?”

          Molly drops her hands and turns toward the voice, emitting a loud squeak.  Her eyes land on John, who is holding a grocery bag and wearing an impish smile.  She flushes and stutters his name.

          “It’s all right Molly,” says Sherlock, “he’s been standing there for over two minutes.  He constantly complains about my playing, but, in actuality, likes it.”

          “When you play like that, yeah.  I’m glad you got to hear him play, Molly.  Something real, not just Christmas carols”. 

          “He was playing Sherlock,” says Molly quietly, almost to herself.

          “Are you sure?” says John teasingly as he walks into the kitchen.  Molly blushes and hears Sherlock laugh though his nose.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This work has not been beta-ed, please send constructive criticism!


End file.
